Let’s advance the game:
How many times can we rhyme about cars and chains?
How many bricks can a nigga really sell?
How many times can a nigga really go to jail?
How many murders can you do on one album?
Put ‘em together, must of did about a thousand.
I’m just saying, let’s change it up.
If not, nigga, hang it up.
Battling me is some deadly shit,
So come equipped with rhymes, guns and two extra clips.
Aim for the head, ‘cause you don’t wear a vest there,
Bullet makes a window, your brain needing fresh air.
Next time you see a brother down
Stop and pick him up,
Cause you might be the next one stuck.
Never become so involved with something that it blinds you.
Never forget where you from; someone will remind you.
Rappers spit rhymes that are mostly illegal,
MC’s spit rhymes to uplift their people.
I will endanger your species like an ostrich,
Hold you hostage, and crazy feed you swine sausage!
I don’t like thugs, I don’t like nerds,
I don’t like myself and I hate bein’ disturbed.
Wouldn’t it be nice if life was sort of like a dream,
And everything wasn’t really what it seemed?
What if everything you ever wished for was in reach,
And you could learn everything your school didn’t teach?
Wouldn’t it be nice if the banks didn’t fuck up the loans,
And people ain’t have to move out they homes?
With no GM or AIG…and for that matter no cancer or A-I-D?
6’n the mornin’ police at my door,
Fresh Adidas squeak across the bathroom floor.
Out the back window I make a escape,
Don’t even get a chance to grab my old school tape…
Alright, it’s getting really close to the election day.
I’m voting; please don’t cut off my Section 8.
As soon as pastor pass the collection plate,
I’m like, ‘Shit, I’m trying to stack for a Escalade!’
Telling my business to kids I don’t even know,
You’re like a daytime talk show…and that’s low.
How far must you go to gain respect? Um…
Well, it’s kind of simple: just remain your own.
Or you’ll be crazy sad and alone.
I left my Phillie at home,
Do you have another?
I wanna get blunted, my brother.
Some seek fame cause they need validation,
Some say hating is confused admiration.
Once in awhile, I’mma cheat and get dome,
But best believe that I’mma always come home.
Shorty, I luv you.
Type to tote the glock and use gats…
You the type to vote Barack cause dude’s black.
I’m no slave to a rhythm, I whip it,
Then I take its name and change its religion,
Then I chop the foot off the fuckin’ beat
For trying to escape the track, now it’s obsolete.
Scared of a bunch of water? Then get out the rain.
Order a rapper for lunch, and spit out the chain.
Shoot eagles on the Jack Nicklaus course,
Porsche with the triple exhaust,
Seats soft like a midget’s cough…
And when I smiled, ‘Bing!’ I almost blinded her.
She said, ‘Great Scot, are you a thief?
Seems like you have a mouth full of gold teeth!’
Hahahaha, had to find that funny,
So I said, ‘No child, I work hard for the money.
And calling me a thief? Please…don’t even try it,
Sit down, eat your slice of pizza, and be quiet.’
Music just ain’t what it used to;
We used to have songs that you could shoplift or boost to.
You’ve got to realize that the world’s a test,
You can only do your best and let Him do the rest.
You’ve got your life, and got your health,
So quit procrastinating and push it yourself.
I wonder, who do you believe in? I know it ain’t me,
I hope it ain’t a priest, or who you seen on TV.
I hope it ain’t your poppa, potna, he only raised you.
And I know it ain’t your mom, even though that’s who you came through…
Hood forever, I just act like I’m civilized.
Really what’s in my mind is organizing a billion Black motherfuckers
To take over JP Morgan, Goldman and Sachs
And teach the world facts and give Saudi they oil back.
Ronald Reagan was an actor. Not at all a factor,
Just an employee of the country’s real masters.
Just like the Bushes, Clinton and Obama,
Just another talkin’ head tellin’ lies on teleprompters.
If you don’t believe the theory, then argue with this logic:
Why did Reagan and Obama both go after Gaddafi?
We invaded sovereign soil, goin’ after oil
Takin’ countries as a hobby paid for by the oil lobby,
Same as Iraq and Afghanistan.
And Ahmadinejad sayin’ they comin’ for Iran…
I show more blind rage than Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles wrestling in a steel cage.
If rhyme is a crime, my mic is my co-defendant.
I had a cigarette for breakfast, just for beginners,
Cried for my lunch, and sleep for dinner.
I don’t like a girl that be hanging with a slut crew,
I can’t sport a female who’s crossed-eyed with a buck tooth.
I need a female I can sport when I’m outdoors.
I’m not choosy…I got a rep to look out for.
It’s a thin line between paper and hate,
Friends and snakes, nine millis and thirty-eights,
Hell or the pearly gates…I was destined to come,
Predicted, blame God, He blew breath in my lungs.
EPMD in effect, I’m clockin’ mad green
Like Kermit the Frog, sloppy like Boss Hog,
Girl was runnin’ wild…ate her like a corn dog.
It’s ninety-six degrees in the shade…
Before I catch blood on my blade.
On the square…I’m not riffin’ like Andy Griffith,
Just fed up, goin’ head up, with competition.
Went from most hated to the Champion God Flow,
I guess that’s a feelin’ only me and LeBron know.
Keep my planets in orbit,
Never forfeit or quit,
Move forward…
I talk with the awkward slang,
I walk with the Wu-Tang.
Fuck a blog, dog, cause one day we gon’ meet.
This generation lacks true knowledge of how the past has trapped you with psychological lassos over Adam’s apples.
The D’s for doin it all of the time.
M is for the rhymes, that are all mine,
C’s for cool, cool as can be,
And why you wear those glasses? So I can see!
Bass! How low can you go?
Death row…what a brother know.
Once again, back is the incredible,
The rhyme animal, the uncannable “D!”
Public Enemy Number One.
Five-O said, “Freeze!” and I got numb.
Can I tell ‘em that I really never had a gun?
But it’s the wax that the Terminator X spun.
Set me up, wet me up, niggas stuck me up…
Heard the guns bust, but you tricks never shut me up.
When you say you love me, it doesn’t matter.
It goes into my head as just chit-chatter.
You may think it’s egotistical or just worry-free,
But what you say, I take none of it seriously.
I’m Ready to Die without a Reasonable Doubt
Smoke Chronic and hit it Doggystyle before I go out.
Until they sign my Death Certificate, All Eyez on Me
I’m still at it, Illmatic, and that’s The Documentary.
Nowadays rap artists coming half-hearted,
Commercial like pop, or underground like black markets.
Where were you the day hip-hop died?
Is it too early to mourn? Is it too late to ride?
So you think that hip-hop had its start out in Queensbridge?
If you popped that junk up in the Bronx, you might not live!
The principles of true hip-hop have been forsaken,
It’s all contractual and about money makin’.
This is jazz, this is funk, this is soul, this is gospel
This is sanctified sick, this is player Pentecostal.
This is church front pew, Amen, pulpit,
What my people need and the opposite of bullshit.
I swear these niggas from the future…
Where they got camouflage chains and invisible gats
Cause I don’t see none of the shit I hear in their raps.
We brag on havin’ bread, but none of us are bakers.
We all talk havin’ greens, but none of us on acres.
If none of us on acres, and none of us grow wheat,
Then who will feed our people when our people need to eat?
So it seems our people starve from lack of understandin’
Cause all we seem to give them is some ballin’ and some dancin’,
And some talkin’ about our car and imaginary mansions.
We should be indicted for bullshit we inciting,
Havin’ children deaf and pretendin’ it’s exciting.
We are advertisements for agony and pain.
We exploit the youth. We tell them to join a gang.
We tell them dope stories, introduced them to the game.
Laugh now, cry later: this is the karma.
Hip-hop never died, it’s just sick of the drama.
This is doomsday for MCs with hollow skills,
Who talk about clothing articles and dollar bills,
And fake ass rides that they don’t even drive.
Hip-hop is war and only strong MCs will survive.
Money…really wasn’t part of the rap.
Paid…was havin’ people start to clap.
Rap is not pop. If you call it that, then stop.
Your simple words just don’t move me…
You’re minor, we major.
You all up in the game and don’t deserve to be a player.
I used to be in love with this bitch named E&J,
Don’t fuck with her no more, now I fuck with Tanqueray.
Tanqueray introduced me to her first cousin Gold,
Last name was English and the first name Olde.
I’m only 19 but my mind is older…
When things get for real, my warm heart turns cold.
Leave it up to me while I be livin’ proof,
To kick the truth to the young black youth.
There’s four developing stages in the art of hip-hop,
And most of them developed from the snap, crackle and pop.
The first was the usage of an actual band,
The second was a drum machine made by a man,
The third was the human beatbox and percussion,
The fourth in line was samplin’ and the book of rhyme bustin’.
The rich act poor, and the poor claim rich,
Whatever sounds cool’ll make the weaker mind switch.
If you on a major label or an indie 12-inch:
When you fronting on the mic, you still the industry’s bitch.
I start thinking:
How many souls hip-hop has affected?
How many dead folks this art resurrected?
How many nations this culture connected?
Who am I to judge one’s perspective?
Rap is not pop. If you call it that, then stop.
Rap is like a set-up…a lot of games,
A lot of suckers with colorful names.
‘I’m so-and-so,’ ‘I’m this, I’m that.’
But they all just wick-wick-wack.
I never rapped on an R&B record, and I never will.
I got these phony muthafuckas talkin bout ‘Let’s keep it real.’
But they don’t know how to take they own advisement,
Going out, do it solo on an advertisement, commercializing.
Fuckin’ sell out, nigga…this is hip-hop, not fashion.
What the fuck happened to reality-spitting rhyme sayers?
These days, everybody trying to be a thug or a player.
Where did all the real motherfuckers go in the game?
Bring back the breakdancers and graffiti writers with fame.
Question: Why is that MC’s be wack
And major labels wanna sign that crap?
A-yo…funk that!
I said ‘Whoa, little hottie,
I’m not DeLorean, Gambino or Gotti.
I don’t deal coke,
And furthermore you’re making me broke.
I’ll put you in a rehab and I won’t tell your folks.’
And what do you know,
In 18 months she came home,
And I let her back in…
And now she’s sniffing again.
If sleep is the cousin of death, then death is the cousin of sadness;
Murder’s the cousin of madness, love is the cousin of that bitch.
The world is kinda cold and the rhythm is my blanket.
Believers of Jesus be denouncing Satan on every level,
But every Halloween they’re dressin’ like devils.
I’m so Rakim and Eric. B, bitches check out my melody.
I might Slick Rick on a fella…catch me a felony.
I might Shyne Po a ho…POW! Catch me a case.
Producto must have rolled the L because this blunt feels laced.
What’s better than tripping is falling in love.
What’s better than Letterman, Leno, Fallon, and all the above?
What’s better than popping bottles trying to ball in the club?
Is the first caveman pops with his son, ball and a club.
What’s better than paper is balling it up.
What’s better than followers is actually falling in love.
What’s better than frolicking, follies, fallin in mud?
Rolling in green pastures, wandering, following love.
What’s better than eating is feeding your fam.
What’s better than meetings is missing meetings to meet with your fam.
What’s better than leaning and needing your Xan?
Is hitting your zan dreaming a dream could mean leaving the land.
What’s better than yelling is hollering love.
What’s better than rhymes, nickles, dimes, dollars, and dubs?
Is dialing up your darling just for calling her up.
There ain’t nothing better than falling in love.
We ain’t speak, clicking heat is our Morse code.
A letter to you suckers,
Each and every one of you duck muthafuckas…
Your girl puckers her lips, so I stuck her.
This game is lame, the music comes second
So you can save that stupidness for all them artists you checkin.
Popularity don’t last long, I’m in it for classics,
Cause the other side of the biz is fake and it’s plastic.
Make a radio hit: heads criticize it.
Underground classic? Nobody buys it.
So, rap is fucked…
And everything blowing up sounds redundant,
But money talks and bullshit does 9 flat in the 100.
I’ve been layin’, waiting for your next mistake,
I put in work, and watch my status escalate.
MCs get a little bit of love and think they hot,
Talkin bout how much money they got…all y’all records sound the same.
I’m sick of that fake thug, R&B-rap scenario, all day on the radio,
Same scenes in the video, monotonous material.
…Y’all don’t hear me though:
These record labels slang our tapes like dope.
You can be next in line and signed, and still be writing rhymes and broke.
Some rappers stink, like Engelbert Humperdinck,
Better yet Dick Cavett, I got a bad habit
Similar to the girl on She’s Gotta Have It.
Every time I write these words they become a taboo,
Making sure my punctuation curve, every letter here’s true,
Living my life in the margin, and that metaphor was proof.
Those who flashin’ don’t blast, they still buffoons,
Just blowin out hot air, they should fill balloons.
I’m like them shorties that could kill for goons,
They started hustlin’ in April to cop wheels in June.
And as for the critics, tell me I don’t get it.
Everybody can tell you how to do it, they never did it.
My days getting shorter, my nights getting longer,
My cell getting smaller, my son getting taller.
I exercise my mind, my body getting stronger,
But my blood getting colder, heart getting harder.
My chances for appeal getting slimmer,
My skin getting brighter, my hair getting thinner.
See, when you stressed out, you could age fast in here,
I done seen weak niggas not last a year.
So before lights out, I write my kids every night,
Kiss the stamp on the kite,
And say a prayer…I hope it lands safe in these flights,
I pray they sleep safe through the night.
Try to teach my son right, give him some jewels,
But it’s hard to raise my boy from this visiting room.
Many cells turned to prisoner’s tombs,
I just pray I don’t die in here,
And last night I almost cried a tear.
My momma did her part,
But it ain’t her fault that I was born without a heart.
In other words: I’m heartless dude.
I don’t love me…how the fuck I’mma love you?
We live in a society created by an empire
That’s based on terror…welcome to the One World Era,
A complete interruption to your lil’ paltry-ass life,
That you thought you was livin, and what you been given.
Others tell like it is, while I tell it how I would like it to be.
They say that love is powerful as cough syrup and Styrofoam.
All I know is I fell asleep and woke up in that Monte Carlo
With the ugly Kardashian…
Lamar, oh, sorry. Yo, we done both set the bar low.
I don’t understand the difficulty, people;
Love your brother, treat him as an equal.
Redman ready to rock rough rhymes,
Renegade rapper, rip when it’s rhyme time.
Punk push a pen and pencil when I’m pissed,
Pack pistol posse, flow some more pro shit.
I got a girl and she treat me fine,
But the homies all think that I’m losin’ my mind.
I’m trippin’ and I know it cause I’m all nerved up,
Cause everytime I go to sleep, I see this big ol’ butt.
See, I ain’t never gave no chick 4 stars,
But she treat me so good that she be drivin my car.
And every day it get better, I can’t lie,
Went to the house and she made me some hot potato pie.
All my friends be sayin, “She ain’t nothin but a scrub!”
But she make me feel high like I’m hooked on drugs.
So I give her what she need, and what’s done is done,
But I’m a special kind of fool but ayo, it don’t bother me none.
I can’t help myself, I know that I’m trippin’,
But she got it goin’ on like Kentucky Fried Chicken.
It seem like everybody dress tight now,
And I just want my credit.
The mind is a terrible thing to waste.
I show love cause it’s a terrible thing to hate.